


In Pieces

by Azpou



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, The Borg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-29
Updated: 2002-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azpou/pseuds/Azpou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean-Luc and Data, having dinner. After the Borg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Pieces

He's drifting away, piece by piece, even as he listens to Data chatter inanely and insensitively through the meal, about the damage to the main computer, about the broken replicators in Ten Forward, about the fragility of the crew, of Earth, of the Federation and the whole damn galaxy.

Data doesn't eat, of course, but endures the meal for his sake. Though perhaps 'endures' is too strong a word - possibly 'observes' is more appropriate, in the sense that Data complies with the act of sitting at the table and watches him consume food. Never one meaning or the other, always together, complex and yet extraordinarily simple.

As with all things. One would think that the various dualisms would be awkward, and perhaps they are . . . but he's drifting too far to notice.

Nor does he care, and that seems like the strangest thing of all. He looks out at life through a window of old, grey glass, mottled and sagging with age and decay. He can't see clearly through the memories - his own, and those of others.

Bruth, Jelor, female, species 375. Scientist. Wife of Bruth, Benlil, male. Doctor. Mother of Bruth, Froral, female. Child.

One of many.

"Are you all right, Jean-Luc?"

He lowers his fork and leans back in his chair, feeling hollow despite the food, despite the memories and the knowledge crushing his very self.

Starfleet hasn't asked him to supply Commander Shelby with information, but he knows that they will. He's become an intelligence resource, a supply of data and codes and algorithms . . . and also, just possibly, a security risk.

"I'm fine," he tells Data, unwilling to vocalise his thoughts, thinking how strange it still sounds to hear his name from the lips of his subordinate. Data is more than his second officer, however, so perhaps this particular strangeness isn't a bad thing.

It's so arrogant to think like that, though; to think that he might somehow be able to combine duty with . . . what? Love? Love is an abstraction, an irrelevance, an emotion with no place in the heart of a starship captain.

He can't feel. In fact, the only thing he feels is that he's rather more like the Borg, rather more like Locutus, than he would have ever imagined possible. He even shares their arrogance.

And wasn't he arrogant? Weren't they all? To have believed that the Federation was untouchable, that Earth was invulnerable, that Starfleet might would conquer the galaxy and bestow order and humanity upon a chaotic and inhuman empire. More abstractions, more irrelevancies, more lies and delusions and illusions that had no basis in reality. The Borg had smashed the very core of their being.

"Perhaps you would care to sleep?"

_Not really,_ he thinks.

"Yes," he agrees, knowing he must.

Data nods, just once, at once certain and unsure. Dualisms. He can't cope with the complexities of their relationship, can't cope with the thoughts spinning warp-speed quick through his head. He imagines himself being pulled down white-water rapids, a mere pebble in the swirling mud tossed around and displaced by powers and forces beyond his control.

He stands and walks through to his bedroom, not caring that his meal sits half-eaten on the table, not caring that his body has grown thinner and more delicate since his return to duty. He knows his crew has noticed the difference, knows Beverly is worried, knows Will doubts his fitness for command. Knows Troi is sharpening her claws, waiting for him to crack. He's actively cultivating his detachment, because to acknowledge the concern and the care would be to let himself shatter into a million pieces.

He strips off his clothes and lies down on his bed, listening to Data efficiently clearing his mess. Wonders when he became so self-absorbed. Wants to hurt himself for it, and then thinks that maybe he hurts enough already.

He can't bring himself to close his eyes, and waits until Data is naked and lying beside him before doing so. They don't touch. He can't bring himself to touch, not yet, because it's all he can do to lie naked beside another person. He can't let himself be touched by Data's cold, emotionless hands. The comparisons his subconscious makes are unfair, but he can't. He'd like to be grateful to Data, for whatever impulse persuades Data to lie naked beside him and feign sleep, but he can't let himself feel. Not yet.

He closes his eyes, drifting still further. There's peace in solitude, in emotional bankruptcy. There isn't anything left of Jean-Luc Picard, and perhaps that's why Data's utterance of his name jarred as it did. Or perhaps not - they took it all.

The room is silent. Data feigns breathing, slow and regular, a ticking clock marking the passage of time and of life.

And that's when he hears the screams.


End file.
